paused. “Well,” he said, “of
course
it’s about money. You have no idea—thank God Ernst suggested—” Then he said, forcefully, “It isn’t about money. It’s about family.”
The implication was that Pavel would teach his son about the business in the same way his own father had done with him, that to give it up would be to forsake not only the factory but Pepik’s own future.
“Pepik is a child,” Anneliese said.
“Children grow up.”
Marta considered how hard it was, at the moment, to imagine. She had resorted to spoon-feeding Pepik his peas, a hand cupped under his chin as if he were an infant. She agreed with Anneliese. It was difficult to picture him at the helm of such an industry. He was too sensitive, too introverted. It would only mean disappointment for everyone.
Anneliese said, “There was a telegram from—”
But Pavel knew about the telegram and interrupted. “Liesel, we are not leaving. Give me some time!” He began to speak rapidly in German—it was Anneliese’s mother tongue and the language the Bauers reverted to when they fought. Marta did not understand the words, but she understood the way Pavel jabbed his fork in the air, the chicken dangling precariously.
Pepik had left the battle between potatoes and peas to wage on his plate. His eyes were now moving from one parent to the other, as though watching strikes being exchanged between the famous Italian fencer Aldo Nadi and his brother Nedo. Marta tried to remove herself from the Bauer’s argument by focusing on their son. “
Miláčku
,” she said, hunching over him, “try one more bite,” but Pepik was saved by a knock at the front door.
The family fell silent and waited one heartbeat for Sophie to answer it, before remembering that Sophie was not there. Marta jumped up and smoothed down her apron.
“Shall I, Mrs. Bauer?”
Pavel straightened his tie and put down his fork. He was working to rearrange his facial features, to hide his frustration.
At the door, Ernst handed Marta his coat. He looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then reached forward and pinched her nipple.
Marta winced, and then giggled. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. Up close, Ernst’s pockmarks appeared even deeper than usual, but there was something about them that she considered vaguely handsome.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You’re here all the time,” she said.
“And so?”
“I thought you felt . . . Mr. Bauer is—”
She had been about to remind Ernst of Pavel’s religion, but Ernst interrupted her. “Pavel is my dear old friend.” He looked at her intently, as though this should explain things, but Marta was still perplexed. It must have shown on her face, because Ernst spoke again. “My dear old
wealthy
friend.” He held his earlobe briefly between thumb and forefinger.
So Marta’s suspicion was confirmed: Ernst was taking advantage of the occupation to try to get hold of Pavel’s money. A wave rose within her—guilt, and shame, and something even darker she couldn’t name. Part of her wanted to extricate herself; another part wouldn’t allow it. She moved to press herself against Ernst, trying to blot out her feelings, to forget what he’d said. She turned her face up to his, waiting to be kissed. The Bauers were right there in the next room, but something in her suddenly wished to get caught, wished to have the whole thing out in the open. The liaison was exhausting, not to mention the secrecy—and this new information about Ernst’s motivation. But Ernst raised his eyebrows to show a kiss was too risky.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Marta shrugged, pretending indifference.
“Don’t be like that,” he said. “I need you on my side. Don’t you know that?”
Marta didn’t answer but she saw all at once that he meant it. He was more uncertain than he was letting on, about his feelings towards the Jews and how his old friend Pavel might fit in with them. He
course
it’s about money. You have no idea—thank God Ernst suggested—” Then he said, forcefully, “It isn’t about money. It’s about family.”
The implication was that Pavel would teach his son about the business in the same way his own father had done with him, that to give it up would be to forsake not only the factory but Pepik’s own future.
“Pepik is a child,” Anneliese said.
“Children grow up.”
Marta considered how hard it was, at the moment, to imagine. She had resorted to spoon-feeding Pepik his peas, a hand cupped under his chin as if he were an infant. She agreed with Anneliese. It was difficult to picture him at the helm of such an industry. He was too sensitive, too introverted. It would only mean disappointment for everyone.
Anneliese said, “There was a telegram from—”
But Pavel knew about the telegram and interrupted. “Liesel, we are not leaving. Give me some time!” He began to speak rapidly in German—it was Anneliese’s mother tongue and the language the Bauers reverted to when they fought. Marta did not understand the words, but she understood the way Pavel jabbed his fork in the air, the chicken dangling precariously.
Pepik had left the battle between potatoes and peas to wage on his plate. His eyes were now moving from one parent to the other, as though watching strikes being exchanged between the famous Italian fencer Aldo Nadi and his brother Nedo. Marta tried to remove herself from the Bauer’s argument by focusing on their son. “
Miláčku
,” she said, hunching over him, “try one more bite,” but Pepik was saved by a knock at the front door.
The family fell silent and waited one heartbeat for Sophie to answer it, before remembering that Sophie was not there. Marta jumped up and smoothed down her apron.
“Shall I, Mrs. Bauer?”
Pavel straightened his tie and put down his fork. He was working to rearrange his facial features, to hide his frustration.
At the door, Ernst handed Marta his coat. He looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then reached forward and pinched her nipple.
Marta winced, and then giggled. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. Up close, Ernst’s pockmarks appeared even deeper than usual, but there was something about them that she considered vaguely handsome.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“You’re here all the time,” she said.
“And so?”
“I thought you felt . . . Mr. Bauer is—”
She had been about to remind Ernst of Pavel’s religion, but Ernst interrupted her. “Pavel is my dear old friend.” He looked at her intently, as though this should explain things, but Marta was still perplexed. It must have shown on her face, because Ernst spoke again. “My dear old
wealthy
friend.” He held his earlobe briefly between thumb and forefinger.
So Marta’s suspicion was confirmed: Ernst was taking advantage of the occupation to try to get hold of Pavel’s money. A wave rose within her—guilt, and shame, and something even darker she couldn’t name. Part of her wanted to extricate herself; another part wouldn’t allow it. She moved to press herself against Ernst, trying to blot out her feelings, to forget what he’d said. She turned her face up to his, waiting to be kissed. The Bauers were right there in the next room, but something in her suddenly wished to get caught, wished to have the whole thing out in the open. The liaison was exhausting, not to mention the secrecy—and this new information about Ernst’s motivation. But Ernst raised his eyebrows to show a kiss was too risky.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Marta shrugged, pretending indifference.
“Don’t be like that,” he said. “I need you on my side. Don’t you know that?”
Marta didn’t answer but she saw all at once that he meant it. He was more uncertain than he was letting on, about his feelings towards the Jews and how his old friend Pavel might fit in with them. He
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